Tag Archives: Customer Service

I’m sure you’re aware of her. It’s the woman who could care less about the fact that she parented a monstrous posse of mini demons. She walks into every building with her defensive bitch stare on as if she already knows the number of dirty looks that will beam down on her. She created the mess that follows her in but she stopped handing out fucks a long time ago. Probably right after the first one showed signs of trouble.

The middle child is usually the quietest one. He only has outbursts on occasion. I have a theory the he’s the leader of the group, secretly. His brothers are not aware of his control but it’s there. He stands off to the side while the other two spread their filth. The extent of his destruction is unknown at this point. It only shows every now and then when the other two are lacking in severity. He searches for the one working in the building that harbors the most authority (and this, unfortunately, falls on me most days) and rests his chilling glare on them. His hand slowly rises to meet with a novelty item of some degree of value and relocates it to the floor. Whether or not the item breaks is unimportant. He just wants you to know he’s there, lurking. He’s already asserting himself at the pathetic age of eight (I’m guessing). A slight chill fills the room at that thought.

The eldest son is only slightly composed. He has been getting everything he wants far longer than the other two so why should he have to assert anything other than his stature? He might even help the mother from time to time as a reminder that he was her first. Little does he know that this means absolutely nothing to her. He’s an ungrateful little shit all the same. His superpower is a false sense of entitlement followed by an uncomfortably laughable pouty face. It’s uncomfortable because of the way it works on occasion. This evokes a staggering degree of hatred towards the mother. You really have to fight the urges looming in your now balled fist at this point. They’re only children, you say to yourself. They did not cause bad parenting; they are the consequence of it.

And then you lay eyes on the smallest one…

Everything in the store belongs to him. Did you know that? It just depends on when he decides that he needs that particular item. The mother at least tries to control this one but it’s a lost cause at this point. You can’t put three Tasmanian devils in a museum and only provide rules for one of them. A baby could tell you how much that does not work but she tries anyway. He locates his item of the day and begins his parade of lunacy. Declaring it as his own, he clutches onto it and proudly displays it for everyone to see. The mother murmurs under her breath for him to put it back but not even her own ears could hear her. I can see it in her deadpan eyes; she’s desperately hoping he’ll get the hint. At this point, I’m beginning to tear my hair out. Once payment is given the woman then has to pry the item from the now screaming mass slumped on the floor as the oldest son is laughing hysterically. The middle son is leaving the area while depositing a pleased grin in my direction and I find myself defeated somehow. The oldest is having a hard time walking out due to his laughter as the mother is now dragging the youngest out of the store by the back of his shirt. He apparently has the incredible gift of stiffening his entire body while still violently flailing his limbs.